


(His) Hope & Faith

by Hairi_Esh_Mooncake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Feels, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e04 The Big Empty, Reunions, Season/Series 13 Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12618412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hairi_Esh_Mooncake/pseuds/Hairi_Esh_Mooncake
Summary: Dean knows how to kill monsters. And losing people hasn't taken that away from him. So when he finds a guy in a trench coat with the blue eyes waiting for him at the bunker - he swears the shapeshifter is dead meat.





	(His) Hope & Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so there's nothing too profound about this but s13 is giving me feels and those feels created this, so, enjoy? 
> 
> P.s. This might have a second part.

 It‘s a day like any other. Just another miserable, empty day in his week when it suddenly changes.

After their fallout at the shrink‘s office Dean has somehow managed to convince Sam to continue his faith in regards of finding mom, as much as unlikely it sounded, but he never again brought up Cas. Because Cas? Oh that story was done. Burnt bodies don‘t come back to life and he had stayed for hours, rooted on the ground by the pyre that held his body, waiting, hoping that maybe, just maybe he‘d miraculously appear behind the smoke, to know how naive and useless such faith was. Because after fire there‘s nothing left but ashes and the stench of death.

So he was doing all right with accepting Cas‘ death, he _was_ , even if he stayed up most of the nights listening to the Led Zeppelin‘s tape, or drank himself to sleep, at least he was doing so in secret now and not lashing out his anger at the wrong people. He was coping quietly, on his own – something he did his whole life, something he could _deal with_ on his own.

The worst was over.

The last curse towards the universe spoken.

He was back to accepting his life for what it was – _nothing_.

Hence why on such a regular _nothing_ day he was cursed to come face to face with a shapeshifter. Seriously, though, have they created a nest somewhere or what because they just solved a damn case a couple of days ago and now the son of a bitch is back to haunt him with the image of _him_.

His hands are up in air, the pistol pointed at the _creature_ before his brain even fully registers doing it. And if his hands shake he brushes it off to anger. Because he‘s _pissed_ like he doesn‘t remember ever being, for being forced to remember everything that he‘s lost when he just started to accept the inevitability of that.

Just like that his mind is enslaughed with memories of laughter, hope, family and the pain of losing it all. And all because one messed up in the head shapeshifter couldn‘t leave him the hell alone. 

As the words _Hello, Dean_ leave his mouth, spoken in that deep gravel voice Dean cocks the trigger.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?“ he barks at the guy in a trench coat which together with the dark blue tie is just the right shade of brown, reminding Dean of _their_ first meeting. And that just gets him thinking back on the memories that he _won‘t_ be reminising in the presence of a guy he‘s three seconds away from ending.

"Dean, I –" The guy takes one step towards him and it‘s enough for Dean to make a warning shot just above the creature‘s shoulder. It makes it stop, both talking and moving. Obedient, Dean could give him that, though that doesn‘t mean he‘s getting out of this alive. Just because he shot a warning shot doesn‘t mean after he gets his answers the next one won‘t go through the heart.

"I‘m asking you one last time before the next bullet goes through your skull. Who are you?“

The creature shifts his eyes away, like he‘s exasperated with Dean, like he owns the _right_ to be the one frustrated here and then sighs, his shoulders slumping.

"Castiel,“ he says while staring right into Dean‘s eyes, unwavering, like he truly means that- except he‘s a monster and Dean has had enough of monsters playing with his head.

"No. You know what?“ Dean adjusts his grip on the gun and laughs humouresly. "If you don‘t want to tell me who you really are, that‘s _fine_. You can be a freaking Simba for all I care, what is _not fine_ is you breaking into my home looking like my dead family.“

"Dean, I know this‘s hard to comprehend-" it takes another step closer to the hunter and Dean warns it off with a loud _don‘t_  "-if you‘d just let me explain-" another step and it‘s all it takes for the finger to slip from instinct and there‘s a loud shot echoing inside the hard walls of the bunker.

There‘s a dead silence which you would naturally expect after fatally killing a being... except there‘s no movement, not even a real flinch coming from a guy, a _shapeshifter_ that Dean just shot straight in the heart with a silver bullet.

Dean just stares at the smoke coming from the gaping hole in the trench coat, stares some more when the creature wearing _his_ face and body just sighs mournfully at his (stolen) and now ruined coat, pulling the lapels to inspect the damage of the fabric instead of falling down like he supposed to.

Then he lets the coat go and straightens to stare at Dean, again, simply stating, "Silver bullets won‘t work on me, Dean.“

Okay, so, not a shapeshifter. Then...what? Then nothing, he just has to go through the list of the poor bastards that could be out to get him. And isn‘t that list worth millions...

He knows he must look caught off guard, nodding dumbly at the creature, but he manages to school his features to a practiced frown. "Yeah? Well, how about this then,“ he ends the sentence while his hand throws a demon knife towards the creature, it getting stuck inside its chest.

The creature squints at the blade like it has personally offended him, then slowly pulls the bloody thing out, mostly succeeding in dropping Dean‘s blood pressure with each tug.

"This feels...strange,“ he settles on after a while, the knife resting in his palm.

"What, like you feel your insides burning, ready to combust?“ Dean asks, hopeful, one side of his mouth curling into a nervous grin. Because the other alternative is simply impossible. He watched, he smelled, he touched the remaining ashes of the burnt body, and those thoughts are what keeps him from falling, keeps him from succumbing to this insane dream...until it speaks again.

"No, it‘s...“ he pauses to think and there‘s that familiar scrunch on the face, the furrowed brows that tug on Dean‘s heart. "I believe humans call it a sense of Deja vu.“

Air leaves Dean‘s lungs but the creature doesn‘t stop there. At Dean‘s silence, he adds, "From our first meeting?“ he leaves the end of that sentence hanging, like he‘s asking for Dean‘s approval of their long lost shared memory.

And if that‘s not a single scariest thing Dean‘s ever heard.

"You‘re not him,“ Dean says but at this point it‘s unclear who he‘s trying to convince. Probably himself, though it fails to explain the cracking in his voice or the steady welling up emotions trying to burst out of him.

"Dean, I know I was dead. But I‘m back. If there‘s anything else that you want to test, feel free to, but I‘m really back.“

It‘s impossible. He shouldn‘t believe in this insanity, but isn‘t that just the thing? Despite not believing a thing anymore, inside, he was desperate to find something to have _faith_ in. And before Cas, it was always Sammy. He believed for them both. After Cas, it was Sam again. But his faith? It always resided with one angel. It‘s probably why he laughs for the first time in weeks when Cas looks around the bunker and with a goofy smile asks Dean if that‘s the smell of burgers coming from the kitchen.

From then it‘s like a dam bursts inside his heart and it fills with _light_ and _hope_ – everything he thought he had lost.

Cas is still looking around the room when Dean‘s arms come around the angel and the smell, the feel of that angelic power fills Dean‘s senses, letting him know that _yes, you dumb son of a bitch, this is Cas_ followed by _you just recreated your first meeting like from some chick flick_ except for the part where his life usually follows the plotline of a horror story.

He sighs into the angel‘s shoulder, feeling the tension draining from his bones. The at first tentative but then increasingly firmer fingers gripping onto the hunter‘s back just makes him smile more and bury it in the trench coat.

It‘s a reluctant proccess to pull back, his hands linger on Cas‘ shoulder – a squeeze, a lingering brush – a playful poke against the angel‘s cheek – and all the while he is grinning, slightly bouncing on his feet. "Welcome back home, Cas.“

The smile on the angel‘s face finally lets him breathe. "Thank you, Dean.“


End file.
